I close my eyes to push away the mental image, and when that doesn’t succeed, I reach out and literally push him away. His nearness brings back the very memories that are driving me to my self-imposed exile in the first place.

My push is only strong enough to rock him back on his heels, and his eyes search my face before his features go closed and hard.

He begins to walk away, his expression full of disgust. “I know what this bullshit Maine excursion is really about, Olivia. It won’t give you what you’re looking for.”

My stomach clenches. “You don’t know anything,” I say.

“You’re looking for forgiveness,” he says, turning back in the doorway. “So am I. But it’s not in Bar Harbor, Maine. You’ll come find me when you realize that.”

Our gazes hold for several more seconds, and for a moment I think it might be longing that I feel, but deep down I know it’s only regret. I’ll never be able to give him what he thinks he wants.

But whether or not we’re right for each other, Michael does know me. He knows that the reason I’m fleeing New York has nothing to do with the goodness of my heart and everything to do with the wretchedness of it.

Carrying for a war veteran isn’t about philanthropy.

It’s about penance.

CHAPTER TWO

Paul

Those who think 11:14 a.m. is too early in the day to start drinking haven’t met my father.

Hell, those who think any time of day is too early to start drinking haven’t met me.

“Adding alcoholic to our resume, are we?” Dad asks, glaring at the tumbler of bourbon in my hand with disdain.

I rattle the ice in my glass at him without bothering to move from my slumped position in the leather club chair. It’s an effort, making my body go all careless and don’t-give-a-shit, but I’ve learned it’s a necessity around my father. If he sees the real me—the version of me that’s always thirty seconds away from punching something—he’ll have me locked up. “Relax,” I sneer. “At least there’s an ice cube in there. When I start drinking it neat, then we’ll have a problem.”

My father’s stony expression doesn’t waver. Why would it? It’s been locked in the state of disapproving since the day I told him I was enlisting in the Marines instead of becoming his lackey at the company.

If you’d rather get sand up your ass and your damned head blown off than accept your responsibilities, go right ahead, but don’t expect me to give your cold body a hero’s welcome when it gets shipped home in a wooden box.

Ah, that’s my dad. Always one step away from begging me to toss a baseball around or go fishing together. When he’s not telling me to follow my dreams, of course.

It gives me a modicum of satisfaction to know that he was only half right. The sand up my ass definitely happened. But I didn’t get my head blown off.

It was my leg.

Well, actually, that’s melodramatic. My leg is still attached. But for as much use as I get out of it, the damned thing might as well have been blown to bits. Just like everything else good in my life.

The anger of it all threatens to choke me. It’s been two years since I got back from Afghanistan, and the anger isn’t fading. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

But there will be tomorrow and every day after for self-pity. Now I focus all of my attention on figuring out what my father’s current game is. It’s not every day that the illustrious Harry Langdon makes the trek up to Bar Harbor, Maine, to visit his only son.

If I’ve learned anything in the past two years besides how to be myself, it’s how to accurately predict what these little visits will entail.

No warning call first. Check.

No greeting beyond a half-second glance at my left leg to see if it’s magically quarterback-worthy again. It never is. Check.

Avoidance of looking at my face. Check.

Passive-aggressive comment about my drinking. Check.

Which meant that next up on the agenda would be . . .

“Beth called me,” he says. “Says the latest one didn’t even last two weeks.”

Ah. So that’s why he’s here.

I give a rueful shake of my head and glance down at my whisky. “Poor Beth. It must wear on her that her little care-for-the-meek underlings don’t have the stamina to make it out here in the wilderness.”

“It’s not—” Dad breaks off and raps his knuckle sharply against the ancient wooden desk in irritation. He doesn’t yell. Harry Langdon never yells. “It’s not the wilderness, for God’s sake. It’s a nine-bedroom château with two separate guest houses, a gym, and a stable.”

I hear the censure in his voice. I understand it, even. From where he stands, I’m a spoiled brat. But it’s easier to let him think that I’m a pampered pansy than to let him see the truth . . . which is that I wouldn’t care if the whole place went up in flames. That I hope I go up in flames with it.

Because if my dad finds out how truly dead I am inside, he won’t be satisfied with sending the token caretakers my way. He’ll have me committed to some crazy-person facility where I’ll have to drink out of paper cups and use plastic silverware.

I let my face slip into its default sneer. “Well,” I say, lazily climbing to my feet and hobbling over to the sideboard for more bourbon, “perhaps this Gretchen—or was it Gwendolyn?—wasn’t the equine-appreciating type. And besides, she had the voice of a hyena. She’d scare the horses.”